Unwell
by Forever Fairy
Summary: Songfic Bobby questions his sanity. Yes, another one where Bobby questions his sanity. Just bear with me okay? : Please review.


Hi everybody Forever Fairy here. I don't know if you reading this right now has heard the Matchbox Twenty song "Unwell" yet, but the first time I heard it, all I could think about was our beloved Bobby! I know there's a lot of fics about 'what if Bobby gets schizophrenia like his mom?' or 'what if Bobby thinks he's getting schizophrenia like his mom?' but I just couldn't resist. The song fits too well! If you're like me, you tend to ignore the lyrics when they're put into a story, but try and read them in this one. I think you'll agree that it fits our assumptions about Bobby pretty well. Anyway, on with the show. Please review!  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
*All day staring at the ceiling  
  
Making friends with shadows on my wall  
  
All night hearing voice telling me  
  
That I should get some sleep  
  
Because tomorrow might be good for something*  
  
The nights can be so long sometimes. Tonight is another one of those long nights. I just can't seem to sort things out the way I normally do when I'm not at work. It's like my brain just sort of shuts down at home. Mostly it happens after I talk to mom. Listening to her as she rambles on and on about things that no one really seems to notice but her. It makes me wonder, did my mom realize that she was slipping into a deep, dark place when she was first diagnosed? It wouldn't be surprising. I don't think she even realizes it now. Which makes my situation all the more complicated.  
  
*Hold on  
  
Feeling like I'm heading for a breakdown  
  
And I don't know why*  
  
Tonight is just another night that I sit and listen to my own breathing, that I feel my own heartbeat, that the thoughts in my head are so loud that it makes me wonder if my mind is as healthy as I've always perceived it. If mom didn't know she was schizophrenic, maybe I won't know it either. Which terrifies me. I lay here in bed and try to fight off feelings that I may be slipping into the same oblivion that my mother fell victim to all those years ago.  
  
*But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell  
  
I know right now you can't tell  
  
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see   
  
A different side of me  
  
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired  
  
I know right now you don't care  
  
But soon enough you're gonna think of me  
  
And how I used to be*  
  
Even at work, the times when I feel most sane, I feel as if people are watching me with discriminating eyes, as if I'm some sort of freak. They don't even need to know about my past to think it, I'm sure. Which makes me wonder about those who do know about my past.  
  
I wonder constantly what Eames think of me. Hell, I even wonder what Deakins and Carver think of me. I guess being around me so much, they're used to my eccentricities. But do they ever stop and wonder, "What if Goren is becoming a basket case just like his mother?" or "What if Goren is really as big a deadbeat as his father?"  
  
I wish that I could show them me. The real me, not the smart, educated man they always see at work, but the me that I'm too afraid to show everyone. What if the real me is sick like mom? What if the me that I show them everyday is even sicker? The fact that I can't tell... that's frightening.  
  
*I'm talking to myself in public  
  
Dodging glances on the train  
  
And I know, I know they've all been talking about me  
  
I can hear them whisper   
  
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me  
  
Out of all the hours thinking  
  
Somehow I've lost my mind*  
  
When I'm at work, at a crime scene, I usually find myself two inches from a dead body, studying it so fixedly that even Eames shoots me strange looks from time to time. I can feel people watching me with a mix of curiosity and doubt. Doubting my sanity, maybe. Maybe I even doubt it.  
  
For a man who has so much knowledge, a man who knows a little about almost anything, it's like I'm completely clueless sometimes. I find myself missing things, like the acidy whispering and speculation about me. I can feel them, but I ignore them so much that they've begun to fade away. I think that not knowing is worse than hearing what's being said. At least then you know that you're a freak in their eyes instead of lingering in denial over the inevitable.  
  
*But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell  
  
I know right now you can't tell  
  
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see  
  
A different side of me  
  
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired  
  
I know right now you don't care  
  
But soon enough you're gonna think of me  
  
And how I used to be   
  
I've been talking in my sleep  
  
Pretty soon they'll come to get me  
  
Yeah, they're taking me away*  
  
Finally, sleep is beginning to come to me. But, oh God, I'm so afraid to close my eyes. If I do, I might not see the illness sneaking its way into my brain, infecting me with its evil purpose. Can you even see it at all? Mom couldn't. But I remember what it was like. Although mom didn't see it, I did. Everyone around her watched as her complete sanity slipped away from her grip. And I know that everyone around me is watching as I'm slipping into some sort of realm or dimension in which psychological stability means nothing.   
  
*I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell  
  
I know right now you can't tell  
  
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see   
  
A different side of me  
  
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired  
  
I know right now you don't care  
  
But soon enough you're gonna think of me  
  
And how I used to be  
  
Yeah, how I used to be  
  
How I used to be  
  
Well I'm just a little unwell  
  
How I used to be  
  
How I used to be  
  
I'm just a little unwell*  
  
But, for the sake of theory, maybe I'm not inheriting the thing that plagued my family my entire life. Maybe I merely doubt myself out of fear. But I hope that if someday I do become unstable, that everyone, Eames and Deakins and Carver and mom and everyone else who I've ever met will remember me now and know that no matter what happens, I'm still Robert Goren, through and through. Because maybe I'm not sick yet. Maybe I'm just unwell. 


End file.
